The Stranger
by BenedictedCumberbabe221
Summary: John comes home slightly drunk to find a homeless person on Baker Street. it could end up Johnlock if I decide to carry it on. Please leave a review.


It was a Saturday night in London in the midst of an icy November and John Watson was strolling along Marylebone Road toward his flat in Baker Street. He had just met Stamford and a few other friends at a bar. He hadn't really enjoyed himself. It had just been a chore, something to do to keep his mind busy. He needed to be distracted nowadays.

He checked his watch; his vision was blurry and he had to raise his wrist right up to his face to read the time. Perhaps he'd had one too many at the bar. It was just passed eleven. John turned left onto Baker Street and saw the door to his flat glimmer in the lamplight.

John slowed as he stared at the door along the street. He remembered the first time he'd seen the flat, the first day he'd met Sherlock Holmes. Normally memories fade, or disappear completely, but John could honestly say that every second spent with Sherlock had been seared into his mind. Unfortunately the most potent memory of them all was the day that Sherlock had gone.

John shook his head and marched on; trying to remember was not a good idea. He was about to cross the road when he saw a crumpled figure sat on the pavement, their back leant against the wall. Halting, he glanced at the flat, then back at the figure on the ground.

'You okay?' John asked hesitantly, the character raising his head in John's direction as he was addressed. John hesitantly took steps toward him.

'I'm fine, thank you,' the guy replied. His voice was gruff and John saw him bring a cigarette to his lips. He wore black, with a hood drawn up over his head so the only part of his facial features that you could glimpse was his chin and lips. His jaw was obscured by stubble. John really had no idea why he was approaching him, he just did.

'Cold tonight,' John stated. 'Don't you have somewhere to go?'

The man seemingly let out a breath of laughter, and his head shook.

'No, been homeless for a while now. You get used to the cold.' It kind of seemed the right time to leave, but John didn't.

'Do you want me to get you a coffee or something? Soup?' Even as John said it he realised that he probably didn't have any coffee or soup. He was just as useless at stocking up his cupboards as he had been when Sherlock was with him.

'No, I'll be fine thank you,' the homeless man rejected the offer, but John could hear the smile in his voice. John nodded and made to cross the road, when a question from the homeless man stopped him.

'Do you live at 221B?'

'Yeah.'

'Isn't that where that detective lived, you know, the fraud one,' he clicked his fingers as he tried to summon the detective's name. 'That one who threw himself of St Bart's.'

'He was Sherlock Holmes,' John said through gritted teeth as he stared unseeing at the pavement. 'And he wasn't a fraud.'

The homeless person took a drag of nicotine-filled air, and exhaled. 'That's why I recognise you. You two were always in the papers, solving crimes every day. He was a clever guy.'

John stared at the guy sat cross-legged upon the ground, unable to work him out. After a few moments he replied, 'Yes. Yes, he was. Made him a bit egotistical at times, but he was…fantastic.'

John felt the person's stare from the darkness beneath his hood.

'Actually, he used to have this thing,' John carried on. 'He used to ask homeless people for favours. He didn't ever ask you for anything, did he?'

'No. Some of my friends mentioned him a few times, but I was never in contact with him.'

'Were you good friends with him? Sherlock?' he asked, taking another swig from his cigarette.

'Yes,' John shrugged, the cold starting to nip at him now. 'He wasn't really a 'friend' kind of person but I think, well... I was the closest thing he had to one.'

'Just to set it straight, I don't think he was a fraud,' the man said. 'It's just when I said 'the fraud one' you looked a bit pissed.'  
John chuckled slightly, 'That's great to know. It's nice to know I'm not the only one.' He looked at the homeless man and pitied him; it was now painfully cold. 'I'm going to get you a coffee, don't object, it's bloody freezing.' John smiled as he pointed his thumb in the direction of 221B and backed away.

'I think, actually, that'd be greatly appreciated,' the shadowed man answered, rubbing his hands together to accent the chilliness. John gave him a thumbs-up and crossed the road.

'How do you take it? Your coffee?' John called back.

'Black, two sugars.'

John unlocked the door and skipped up the stairs. He put the kettle on and waited. A few minutes later, he took the coffee downstairs and opened the door to find that the stranger had gone. John looked up and down the road. There was no one. But John still walked to where the man had been. He stopped before the wall. There, he stared at a smiley face; painted with that same yellow paint. John didn't notice himself dropping the coffee, or observe his hand stroking the fresh paint. He just stopped functioning, because in that moment he knew. And all he could say was, with a slight smile, 'I'm going to find you, you bastard.'


End file.
